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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23522017">The Misadventures of Crackshot &amp; Limber</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroeulogy/pseuds/astroeulogy'>astroeulogy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Blood, Dubious Consent, Fighting As Foreplay, M/M, Sexual Content, Something Made Them Do It, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:26:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23522017</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroeulogy/pseuds/astroeulogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months ago, the hero known as Bloodhound became the latest in a long line of mysterious disappearances. When a sudden break in the case leads his old partner and twin brother to the home of Southpaw, the most famous hero in Osaka, things take a turn for the—strange.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>449</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>SakuAtsu Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Misadventures of Crackshot &amp; Limber</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldpalace/gifts">emeraldpalace</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Detailed explanations of the Dubious Consent tag can be found in the End Notes of this story.</b> </p>
<p>This is a superhero story, and that comes with some genre-typical violence. There's about as much blood in this as you could see in a PG-13 movie fight. There are also descriptions of guns, but at no point is a gun fired. </p>
<p>If you want to skip the fight sequence, stop reading at, <i>"Miya," he growls.</i> the fight ends at, <i>Atsumu's quiet and still.</i> You can start reading again there, <b><i>BUT</i></b> that's where the M-content begins. If you want to skip the M content, stop reading there and pick up again at, <i>"They stay against that wall..."</i>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The call comes just after midnight. </p>
<p>By now, Kiyoomi should be in bed and acting like his body knows what to do with more than four hours of sleep. Instead he’s sat cross-legged and hunched over his coffee table, curls in his face as he pours over a well-worn three-ring binder with the word BLOODHOUND written on the spine. His eyes hurt. A headache is beginning to blossom at his temples. Out on the city streets far below his immaculate one-bedroom apartment, sirens wail. </p>
<p>His phone lights up. The incoming call screen says <em> My Darling </em> <em> ♥</em><em>. </em></p>
<p>Kiyoomi’s stomach drops. He sets down the binder and answers.</p>
<p>“How do you keep hacking my phone?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yeesh</em>, paranoid much?” Atsumu laughs. The distortion on the line threatens to swallow the sound of his voice entirely. Kiyoomi plugs one ear and winces, trying to hear and hurting for it. “Is that any way to greet yer partner?”</p>
<p>They’re not partners in any sense, but Kiyoomi ignores that in favor of snarling, “Are you <em> skydiving </em> right now? What <em> is </em>that?”</p>
<p>“Ah,” Atsumu says. The sound fades to a distant hum. “Better?” He didn’t answer Kiyoomi’s question, so Kiyoomi doesn’t answer his—not that it matters because he doesn’t wait more than a second before continuing. “Just thought you’d like to know we’ve got a break in our case.”</p>
<p>Kiyoomi stands up so fast he knocks his knee on the coffee table. He swears hotly, then demands, “Why didn’t you lead with that?” </p>
<p>Atsumu clicks his tongue. “The way yer actin’ Omi-kun,” he sing-songs, “ya’d think it was <em> yer </em> brother missin’ in action.”</p>
<p>How he manages to make light of this even now, six months into an investigation that’s been nothing but dead ends until tonight, until <em> right now, </em> is beyond Kiyoomi. </p>
<p>“Miya,” he warns.</p>
<p>“Yuck,” Atsumu complains. “If yer gonna insist on actin’ all unfamiliar-like, at least call me by my codename.”</p>
<p>Frankly, Kiyoomi would rather die. “I won’t.”</p>
<p>“Why the heck not?”</p>
<p>Because the vigilante formerly known as Marksman, formerly known as Deadeye, formerly known as Projectile, formerly known as Crosshair has recently decided to try the codename <em> Crackshot </em> on for size. Every time Atsumu hears it (or worse, sees it in print), a stupid, dirty smirk stretches across his face and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively in Kiyoomi’s direction as if to say: <em> Ain’t I just the funniest? </em></p>
<p>Every day, Atsumu reaches new heights of unbearable; every day, Kiyoomi tells himself he ought to break this ill-advised partnership before it breaks him. And yet.</p>
<p>“Tell me about the lead,” he says.</p>
<p>Atsumu heaves a sigh that sounds thin through the tinny line of his latest burner phone. “Satori Tendou,” he begins. “Disappeared about eighteen months ago, just like Samu only he’s from Sendai. No loose ends, no clues, just—poof—gone in a puff of smoke. Then, this afternoon, outta nowhere, someone tries to use his credit card at a combini here in town.”</p>
<p>“<em>Here?</em>” Kiyoomi asks, eyes narrowing. </p>
<p>Atsumu’s tone is serious. “Here.”</p>
<p>Shit. Kiyoomi sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth. Sendai isn’t exactly a stone’s throw from Hirakata, and neither of them believes in coincidences. </p>
<p>Atsumu continues. “So I follow the hit, pick up the footage from the store’s camera—” Kiyoomi quietly mourns any hope of plausible deniability he might have had and wonders, for the millionth time, how Atsumu gets his hands on all this shit he definitely should not have access to, “—and I was thinkin’, you know. Don’t get yer hopes up, Sumu. It’s probably just a kid who picked up the card a while back and finally got the balls to try and use it—”</p>
<p>Which is fair. It’s what Kiyoomi would think.</p>
<p>“—but get this. It’s <em> him</em>. Tendou himself, in the flesh. And this guy’s got a mug ya couldn’t mistake for anyone else, trust me. It’s <em> distinct</em>. So next I grab the footage from all the cameras on the road outside the combini and—”</p>
<p>Kiyoomi pinches the bridge of his nose and thinks <em> I didn’t hear this, I didn’t hear this, I didn’t hear this</em>. </p>
<p>“—long story short, he’s in hiding. The best part? One of the heroes at yer agency is puttin’ him up.”</p>
<p>“What,” Kiyoomi says.</p>
<p>“Ya heard me.” Atsumu’s voice is smug. He knows he buried the lede there, and he’s obviously relishing the flat sound of Kiyoomi’s surprise. “Southpaw himself.” </p>
<p>None of this makes any sense, but <em> this </em> is especially weird. Of all the heroes to give refuge to a missing person from Sendai, Wakatoshi’s probably the <em> last </em>one Kiyoomi would expect. What’s the connection between a nobody like this Tendou person and the top-ranked hero in Osaka? Something’s not adding up. </p>
<p>Exhaustion finally starts to seep into Kiyoomi’s bones. He rubs a hand over his face and draws a slow, steadying breath. Maybe this will all make more sense tomorrow, after he’s slept on it.</p>
<p>“I’ll see what I can find out,” he sighs.</p>
<p>“Nah, don’t bother,” Atsumu laughs. “I’ve got Tendou in my sights, and a friend of mine is lookin’ into Southpaw as we speak. No need to dirty yer hands yet—I know how ya hate that.” </p>
<p>Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Don’t shoot our lead.”</p>
<p>“Don’t tell me what to do,” Atsumu says, then he kills the call.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hero shifts at the agency are determined by rank. As one of the handful of A-Ranks on the roster, Kiyoomi’s shifts are 18:18s—eighteen hours on, eighteen hours off. It’s absolutely wrecked his circadian rhythm, but it means villains have to work harder; it’s a pain in the ass to plan jobs when you don’t know who’s going to be on guard. </p>
<p>The morning after his call with Atsumu, Kiyoomi’s only forty-five minutes late to work. His standard costume—which is a lime-green and yellow atrocity made of the stretchiest nylons in the world in order to accommodate his ability—is so tight he has to pour himself into it, and he always fails to account for how long that takes. </p>
<p>The agency’s head of security is an eyebrowless titan named Aone. He sits rigidly behind the too-small desk in the building’s lobby and greets Kiyoomi with a grunt and a severe, scrutinizing look while Kiyoomi blinks blearily at the marketing photos displayed on the far wall. Aone’s power—<em> Recognition</em>—takes about ninety seconds to run its course. Once he’s confirmed Kiyoomi’s identity, he mashes a button under the desk, and the double doors leading into the office swing open. </p>
<p>The office is a beige-and-blue affair with an open floor layout. Kiyoomi’s been told it’s a soothing combination, good for keeping witnesses and victims calm as they give their statements. When he walks in, no fewer than ten heroes swivel their heads his way, nod in his direction, and turn back to whatever cases they’re working on. </p>
<p>What follows is sixteen and a half hours of paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork. These days, most agencies outsource this stuff, but their region’s Director of Oversight thinks the tedium of documentation somehow inspires heroes to de-escalate situations faster and resort to violence less often.</p>
<p>Kiyoomi wonders if he’s ever taken into account the way paperwork inherently <em> inspires </em> violence. Probably not.</p>
<p>Sleep deprived and bored out of his mind, he nearly falls asleep in his chair at the sixteen hour mark, all but drooling into his twelfth NOPU-19 form of the night. That’s when a C-rank hero with gray hair and a name Kiyoomi’s never bothered to learn knocks on his desk and says, “Sorry to bother you, Limber. Foster wants you in his office.”</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Three years ago, the <em> Osaka Star </em>broke the story that Tokyo-born hero Limber had signed a five-year contract with the Foster Agency and would be moving south to protect the people of Hirakata City and the surrounding region. They’d also been the first to announce his partnership with local darling Osamu Miya, codename Bloodhound. The newspaper had always been there, lingering in Kiyoomi’s periphery, commenting on developments in his career and reputation.</p>
<p>So he shouldn’t be surprised that it’s the<em> Star </em> that first sniffs out his relationship with Atsumu. </p>
<p>Foster says, “They haven’t put anything to print yet if only because they don’t have any <em> real </em> proof and they’ve got the good sense not to make an enemy of me.” He takes off his glasses and pinches the brim of his nose. “But I wanna hear it from you. Are they right? Are you really in touch with Crosshair? Or Marksman? Whatever it is he’s going by these days.”</p>
<p>Kiyoomi looks at him and says nothing.</p>
<p>“That a yes?” Foster asks.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to lie to you.”</p>
<p>Foster sighs, crosses his arms, and leans back in his plush leather chair to examine the ceiling. Kiyoomi has an idea of what he’s thinking: breaking his contract would mean the end of a lot of cashflow for the agency—in sponsorship deals if nothing else. Right now, Foster’s probably using his keen statistical mind to weigh the pros and cons of kicking him or keeping him.</p>
<p>“You’ve gotta end it,” he says eventually. “Look, I understand. You two were closest to Bloodhound when he went missing, and neither of you ever like loose ends. But Crosshair made his choice when he went rogue, and he’s a wanted man now. Keep doing what you’re doing and he’s gonna drag you under with him. That’s not an <em> if</em>. It’s a <em> when</em>. And you’re gonna bring the whole agency down with you.”</p>
<p>They’d endured an unprecedented amount of negative press when Atsumu first defected. He’d been wildly popular as a hero, and that popularity put all of his bad decisions under a microscope. Lucky for him, the only thing he’d ever been better at than getting attention was evading responsibility, so the authorities haven’t been able to catch him yet. But if news leaks that Kiyoomi’s stayed in contact with him this whole time—well.</p>
<p>“End it,” Foster repeats.</p>
<p>Kiyoomi isn’t one to make promises he doesn’t intend to keep. Instead he says, “He’s calling himself Crackshot now.”</p>
<p>Foster blinks at him. Then he sighs a strange, wistful sigh that Kiyoomi suspects means his contract will be broken today. Will it be worth it? Will any other agency look twice at him after this? Will he care?</p>
<p>“Of course he is,” Foster says, eyes closed as he visibly fights back a fond smile. “Of course he is.”</p>
<p>It’s as good a dismissal as he’s gonna give. Kiyoomi lets himself out of the office, closes the door behind him with a click, and deliberately doesn’t make eye contact when he passes Wakatoshi coming in from his beat with an ice pack pressed to his bloodied hand.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[22:38:00] <em> My Darling </em> <em> ♥ wants to share their location with you. </em><br/>
[22:38:09] [My Darling ♥]: On the roof<br/>
[22:38:22] [My Darling ♥]: Don’t chicken out on me</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Mirage is a fifteen-story residential building that’s only three blocks away from the Foster Agency. Kiyoomi did a walk-through of it when he first moved to the city, but the management’s cleanliness standards were questionable at best. As he veers into the small, dark alley that runs along the building’s western perimeter, he tries not to recall the unvacuumed corridors or the grimy elevators or the disturbingly sticky staircases.</p>
<p>Even fully warmed-up and in his nightmode costume—which is black and gold and so sleek that he resents only being permitted to wear it on approved espionage assignments—a fifteen-story stretch is out of the question. Fortunately, the recessed windows of the building opposite the Mirage offer about four inches’ worth of a hand or foothold, and that’s all Kiyoomi needs.</p>
<p>He unfurls the neck of his costume so it covers his chin and mouth, then he begins to reach up, up, up.</p>
<p>All in all, it takes him less than three minutes to get to the roof of the Mirage. About halfway up, he realizes Atsumu’s looking down at him with a knife-sharp grin and freshly bleached hair. </p>
<p>“I swear,” he says while Kiyoomi hauls himself over the edge and lands in a neat, contained crouch, “you get bendier and bendier every time I see ya, Flex. ‘S’gross.” </p>
<p>“Shut up,” Kiyoomi snaps, noblely ignoring the nickname. “Why are we here? If we’re surveilling, we need to—”</p>
<p>“Surveilling?” Atsumu scoffs. “Just who d’ya think you are, tryin’a tell <em> me </em> how to track a mark?” </p>
<p>For all his bullshit, that’s a hard point to argue. Atsumu Miya, formerly codenamed Marksman, is one of the rare souls gifted with a threefold ability: enhanced senses, enhanced reflexes, and precision aim. On their own, none of the three are exceptional. Together, they’re lethal. Before going rogue, he’d been a cornerstone of the agency’s reconnaissance team and sniper brigade. </p>
<p>Now he’s out in the world on his own, a one-man militia with enough firepower and raw talent to bring down a small city. It’s a cold comfort that all he really wants is to track down and rescue his long-lost brother. </p>
<p>“My sources say Tendou’s got plans to hitch a ride outta the city tonight,” Atsumu says now, bending over to haul a shiny, unwieldy sniper rifle off the ground and strap it onto his back. </p>
<p>He’s wearing a modified version of his Marksman nightmode costume—black and gold like Kiyoomi’s. The tacky goggles on his forehead are equipped with an illegal combat AI thats HUD aids in all of Atsumu’s vigilante scheming. A belt with too many buckles is slung low on his waist, wrapped around him twice, and boasts a couple of hip holsters and some ammo pouches. There are straps around his thighs, too, but the attached pockets don’t look familiar to Kiyoomi—probably a recent addition from one of Atsumu’s many nameless, faceless “friends”.</p>
<p>“Let me guess,” Kiyoomi sighs, tearing his eyes away from Atsumu’s legs to frown into the middle distance. “You want to stop him.”</p>
<p>Atsumu cocks his head and lifts another weapon from its bag at his feet. “Now why’d ya say it like that?” he asks. “I’m not plannin’ on hurtin’ him—I’ve just got a few questions I wanna ask.”</p>
<p>“It’s not asking if you do it with the business end of a shotgun pointed at him,” Kiyoomi counters, eyeing the sawed off barrel with distaste. </p>
<p>“We’ll just hafta agree to disagree.” Atsumu’s smile is downright sunny. Not for the first time, Kiyoomi wonders just how much the last six months have gotten to the guy. He never smiled like <em> that </em> before Osamu disappeared, which means it can’t be a good thing. “Relax, Rubber. I’m not packin’ these with anything lethal tonight.”</p>
<p><em> Rubber </em> earns him a dark, furious look from Kiyoomi. “Call me that again and I’m going home,” he warns.</p>
<p>Atsumu blows a raspberry at him. “If I believed ya trusted me enough to walk away, maybe I’d buy that.” He flicks his wrist in a strange way and the shotgun loops around his fingers on its trigger guard. How someone can be so <em> reckless </em> will always be beyond Kiyoomi, who feels his stomach drop when the barrel points right at Atsumu’s face on its quick rotation. “C’mon. I started the bug on the rooftop access lock almost ten minutes ago. Should be ready by now.” </p>
<p>The access door is a thick gray piece of metal with a keypad instead of a handle. Atsumu’s hooked up a small box to it with a wire Kiyoomi couldn’t identify to save his life, and he studies the box now with a vague frown that, soon enough, twists into a smirk. He glances Kiyoomi’s way and holds up three fingers, then two, then one—</p>
<p>With a click, the door squeaks open. When it’s wide enough for one of them to slip through, Atsumu waves Kiyoomi ahead, so Kiyoomi goes.</p>
<p>The access corridor must be off-limits to residents because it reeks heavily of mold and cigarette smoke. Kiyoomi covers his nose and mouth with a gloved hand even though the extended neck of his costume has filtering capabilities. </p>
<p>“Yuck,” Atsumu complains as soon as he’s inside. Behind him, the door creaks closed again. “For such a fancy place, ya’d think even the maintenance areas would smell less like death, huh?”</p>
<p>He tucks his nose into the bend of his elbow and moves ahead of Kiyoomi, shotgun at rest by his side in his other hand. He’s headed for the elevator at the end of the corridor, and once his nose has adapted to the nauseating stench, Kiyoomi catches up with a couple long strides. Atsumu leans his shoulder on the wall next to the door and fishes into one of his thigh pouches. </p>
<p>Kiyoomi deliberately looks away.</p>
<p>What Atsumu retrieves is another box, this one with a bigger screen displaying a grainy black and white picture—no, a video feed.</p>
<p>“Another thing about management here,” he says, clicking a button that changes the first feed to another. “The cameras and the locks were manufactured by a start-up company that made a lotta noise about havin’ the most secure and stable cloud storage of all time. They saved <em> everything </em> to the cloud—we’re talkin’ camera footage, security codes, lockin’ and unlockin’ histories. All sortsa crazy shit no one actually wants the internet to have.”</p>
<p>Another button click. The feed zooms in. Atsumu’s eyes narrow at the screen, and Kiyoomi’s eyes narrow at him. </p>
<p>“Surprisin’ nobody,” Atsumu goes on, “all those claims they made were totally bogus. The cloud was hacked in about six weeks flat. Then the company dragged their feet issuing a recall. Then, not too long after, they went bankrupt. They sold ownership of their servers to some other no-name group for chump change, laid off all their employees, then went dark. Most of their customers were landlords, and all the good ones had the sense to get their cameras and their tenants’ locks changed in a month or so.”</p>
<p>“But not these landlords,” Kiyoomi guesses.</p>
<p>Atsumu’s grin is unnervingly bright in the dim hallway. “Got it in one, stretchy pants. Not a single damn lock in this building has been changed out in the last three years. Yer buddy Southpaw oughta know it’s a bad idea to use his birthday as the passcode for his condo.”</p>
<p>Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “He can lift a bus with a single hand,” he says. “I don’t think he’s too worried about break-ins.”</p>
<p>“Don’t get me wrong,” Atsumu says, “I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. I love havin’ a dumb mark.” </p>
<p>“I thought Tendou was the mark.”</p>
<p>“He’s the primary, sure, but if things go belly-up we could end up face-to-face with Southpaw. So he’s our secondary.”</p>
<p>Kiyoomi had known, of course, that facing Wakatoshi would be the bad-end of this night. But hearing Atsumu say it so plainly, in this dingy access corridor just a few floors above Wakatoshi’s condo a handful of minutes before they’re set to execute a B&amp;E like a couple of lowrent criminals, crystallizes the danger into something very, very real. He feels vaguely sick at the thought.</p>
<p>“We have to take care of this quickly,” he says while Atsumu gets to work picking the lock on the door covering the elevator’s call button. “I don’t want to get punched out of the thirteenth floor window.” </p>
<p>Honestly, he doesn’t want to get punched out of any part of this building. The fact that his shoes are touching it is already enough of a threat to his sanity. </p>
<p>“Relax, already,” Atsumu huffs. He’s crouching on one knee, tongue between his teeth, as he fiddles with the lock mechanism. “It’ll be quick and painless. Assumin’ we don’t trigger his power in the process.”</p>
<p>Kiyoomi goes very, very still.</p>
<p>“His power,” he echoes. “What <em> power</em>, Miya.”</p>
<p>With zero gravitas, Atsumu says, “I dunno what you call it, but the guy plays with emotions. Specifically, he takes whatever it is yer feelin and ratchets it way, way up.” </p>
<p>“Hyperemotionality,” Kiyoomi intones. “You want us to walk in, secure, and question a guy who can make us <em> hyperemotional</em>?” </p>
<p>Atsumu pauses what he’s doing to glance over his shoulder. “Yeesh,” he laughs. “You’re really buggin’ over this, huh? Take a breath, curls. He doesn’t have much in terms of range—just four feet or so, according to my research. Even if he’s managed to increase that since his last permit eval, he can’t have gained more than a few inches. We’re talkin’ a range of six feet <em> max </em>. And it only lasts five to eight minutes, depending on the victim’s starting line.”</p>
<p>“I hate you,” Kiyoomi says with feeling. “You didn’t think to tell me this <em> last night</em>?”</p>
<p>Atsumu goes back to his lockpicking. “I didn’t know about it last night.”</p>
<p>“Then what about when you sent the text tonight?”</p>
<p>“Well <em> that </em> would’ve been pretty dang suspicious, dontcha think?” Atsumu’s laugh is quiet but no less infuriating for it. “When your message records get subpoenaed, they should look like a lover sent ‘em. <em> On the roof, don’t chicken out on me</em>? Totally a sexy text. <em> On the roof, don’t chicken out on me, by the way he’s capable of manipulatin’ emotions</em>? Damning.” </p>
<p>Kiyoomi pinches the bridge of his nose. “I really, really hate you,” he says again, weaker this time.</p>
<p>“You just hate when I’m right,” Atsumu corrects, and the lock makes a tell-tale clicking sound before the panel eases open. “Which, seein’ as that’s all the time, I get why ya <em> think </em>it’s me yer hatin’.”</p>
<p>He mashes the button with his thumb and tosses a wide, smug smirk Kiyoomi’s way. He is all at once terrible and dangerous and beautiful. </p>
<p>If they don’t end up in prison tonight, maybe Kiyoomi will tell him that. If only for the satisfaction of seeing Atsumu struck stupid and silent. </p>
<p>“No more than six feet, right?” he asks, wetting his dry lips. It’s in his best interests to not let anyone get ahold of the strange cocktail of feelings Atsumu stirs up inside of him, so the number is <em> extremely </em>important here. </p>
<p>“Definitely no more than six feet,” Atsumu confirms. “Trust me. I did the math.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wakatoshi lives in apartment 1315. According to a floorplan Atsumu produces out of another pocket, it’s a 3LDK with custom renovations that made two of the bedrooms smaller and added an L-shaped room off the master. Kiyoomi studies this while Atsumu checks that the coast is clear and hooks up his lock-hacking machine to the keypad beside the door. </p>
<p>“You don’t have any comms on you, right?” Atsumu whispers.</p>
<p>It’s a stupid question, so Kiyoomi ignores it. “Why are we doing this? We already know his passcode.”</p>
<p>Atsumu puts a finger to his lips and tilts the screen of his little black box towards Kiyoomi. It reads <em> &gt; DISABLE ACCESS HISTORY? </em>and the screen flashes three times when Atsumu mashes a green button. He disconnects and repockets it, and readies his shotgun again.</p>
<p>He makes a complicated series of hand gestures that Kiyoomi interprets as <em> I’m going in first, you wait here until I’m six feet away</em>, then he punches Wakatoshi’s birthday into the keypad. After casting one last look Kiyoomi’s way, he turns the door handle and lets himself in. The door clicks closed behind him.</p>
<p>With his line of sight officially broken, Kiyoomi tries to measure distance in seconds, in slow breaths, in heartbeats. He knows Atsumu likes to take his time scoping a place out, but they don’t have much time to spare tonight. More importantly: what are the risks of Atsumu being left without backup? </p>
<p>Three minutes. That’s how long he gives Atsumu before Kiyoomi punches in Wakatoshi’s birthday on the keypad and yanks the door open. The genkan is clear. When he holds his breath and focuses, he can make out a low hum coming from a distant room. </p>
<p>He takes a slow, cautious step inside.</p>
<p>After a few more steps, he stretches an arm back to close the door slowly, carefully, quietly. The condo stays quiet. The only place he can go is forward, where the genkan gives way to a wide, open living area and a wall of windows. </p>
<p>Here’s where he finds Atsumu, on the far end of the room in front of a bookcase that’s all but overflowing with volumes of manga. He has his shotgun on his back now and a glock in hand, complete with silencer. When he turns to look Kiyoomi’s way, his expression is dark. </p>
<p>In his hand is an off-white envelope, letter-sized. </p>
<p>The distant humming sound cuts off. Kiyoomi cuts his gaze sharply northeast, towards the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Atsumu hauls ass, leaps over the couch, and lands in a crouch behind it, glock at the ready.</p>
<p>Kiyoomi knows a job meant for his power when he sees it. He tugs the neck of his costume up so it covers the entire lower half of his face. Then, with a breath, he begins to stretch, stretch his upper body and then, when he’s closer to the hallway, just his neck.</p>
<p>He doesn’t miss the quiet <em> Gross</em>, Atsumu mutters under his breath. </p>
<p>The hallway is as still and quiet as the rest of the condo. Kiyoomi stretches further. When his head is about a foot from the doorway of the master bedroom, the singing begins. </p>
<p><em> “Birds, bugs, beasts. Grass, flowers, trees,” </em> someone—presumably Satori Tendou—warbles. “<em>Teach people how to feel</em>.”</p>
<p>A nursery rhyme? Kiyoomi frowns and begins to retract as the singing stops. At least he knows where their mark <em> is </em>. He’ll regroup with Atsumu and then they’ll—</p>
<p>He’s about ten feet away when Tendou, with dripping-wet hair and wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, emerges from the bedroom and looks right at Kiyoomi. </p>
<p>“Huh?” he asks, head cocking and eyes narrowing, mouth twisting into a nasty smirk. “What are <em> you </em> doing here?”</p>
<p>The shock triggers Kiyoomi’s power, and he retracts all at once and stumbles off his feet, hitting the arm of the couch and toppling over onto the plush cushions. </p>
<p>“Shit!” Atsumu hisses, scrabbling to look over the back down at Kiyoomi. “What was <em> that</em>?”</p>
<p>The sight of him makes Kiyoomi’s vision darken. His temper catches and starts to burn. Stupid fucking brat, witholding <em> crucial </em> fucking information until the last goddamn possible second. Kiyoomi could wring his neck. His fingers twitch to do so. </p>
<p>Did Tendou activate his power? He must have.</p>
<p>Kiyoomi’s considering his options, or trying to at least, but gets distracted by Atsumu’s too-wide eyes, which look like molten gold behind his stupid, illegal goggles. They’re almost as yellow as his obnoxious hair, which is soft and gelless tonight the way Kiyoomi secretly likes best. Worst of all: he’s sweating a little, which makes Kiyoomi kind of want to drag his tongue against his cheek and taste it. Just thinking about it makes him want to drag Atsumu down by his nape and eat him whole.</p>
<p>Shit. Tendou <em> definitely </em> activated his power. This can only go one of two ways, and like hell Kiyoomi’s gonna let chance decide.</p>
<p>“Miya,” he growls. “You’re shit at math.”</p>
<p>Then he stretches his hand up and nails him with a right hook. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Blood. Atsumu’s bleeding from his eyebrow which split like an overripe melon when Kiyoomi punched him in the goggles. Kiyoomi’s gloves are torn at the knuckles, plastic pieces embedded in the nylon that scratch every time he flexes his hand.</p>
<p>“This is fun!” Tendou calls from somewhere behind them. “Isn’t it weird that your first instinct was to punch your partner?”</p>
<p>Atsumu, dazed, touches two fingers to his eyebrow and casts his unfocused eyes around the room, looking for Tendou. His mouth is slack, the pink of his tongue visible between his lips. Kiyoomi wills his anger to take over so nothing else can. Once it does, he lashes out again—Atsumu dodges just in time.</p>
<p>“Sunuva<em> bitch</em>, Omi-Omi!” he hollers. “What’re you <em> doin’? </em>Get yer shit together!”</p>
<p>He tears after Tendou, but Kiyoomi’s limbs are faster. With a swift stretch of his leg, he kicks out the backs of Atsumu’s knees. He tumbles to the floor in a burst of spandex and cussing, and Tendou edges out of the hallway with his back against the wall. He’s wearing a too-big Southpaw t-shirt and a pair of flower-patterned boxers. </p>
<p>“Sorry about this,” he says, not sounding sorry at all as he steps over Atsumu. Atsumu swipes at his ankle; Tendou nimbly dodges. “It’s Crackshot, right? Big fan. Like what you’re doing with your hair these days.”</p>
<p>Smug piece of shit. Kiyoomi wants to put a fist through a wall. He lunges for Tendou, arms stretching out, out, out. But Tendou sees it coming and ducks. Atsumu jumps to his feet just in time to take Kiyoomi’s extended fist to the back of the head.</p>
<p>He goes down again. Kiyoomi winces. He’d feel bad, if he were capable of feeling anything other than white-hot anger right now. From his spot behind a side table, Tendou snickers.</p>
<p>“I know what you’re here for!” he taunts as Atsumu rounds on Kiyoomi, face contorted with fury. </p>
<p>Kiyoomi rolls off the couch, retracting his limbs as he goes; Atsumu dodges them all and throws himself across the room, hurling towards Kiyoomi at top speed.</p>
<p>They end up rolling on the ground, knees and elbows knocking painfully, until Kiyoomi has to extend his stomach to literally bounces Atsumu to his feet. He follows him up, punching blindly after him. Atsumu’s all teeth and thighs as he dodges again and again and again.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Tendou continues, “Didja find the envelope? It’s all yours. Now if you’ll <em> excuse me </em>, I’m getting out of here. I’ll let Toshi know you dropped by.”</p>
<p>Atsumu finds his opening. He tackles Kiyoomi into a wall, winding him in the process. Kiyoomi lifts his arms to block the punch that comes next, but the inertia cracks his head against a picture frame. It clatters to the floor; the room tilts. Bile burns its way up his throat. He stretches a wrist out, winds his hand around, and yanks Atsumu back by his awful, tacky hair. His answering yowl is high and nasal and deeply, brutally satisfying. Blood pulses hot and fresh from his eyebrow. </p>
<p>“Fuck you,” he grits out, voice ragged.</p>
<p>Kiyoomi’s anger takes a turn for something altogether different. He aggressively unturns it and kicks Atsumu in the chest, sending him careening onto the coffee table. It splinters on impact with a sickening crack. Then it breaks right down the middle. </p>
<p>“Ow,” wheezes Atsumu.</p>
<p>“Stay down,” orders Kiyoomi.</p>
<p>He’s not expecting the coaster. It dings him dead between the eyes, above his mask—a perfect shot. He cusses and stumbles back, shoulders rattling the window, and tries to stop the superficial bleeding with his hand.</p>
<p>With every passing second, his anger ratchets further up. Breathing is difficult. His hand is throbbing. His ears are ringing. His shoulder fucking <em> hurts</em>. There’s blood spilling hot and sticky from the bridge of his nose onto his costume. He can smell it, sharp and metallic. </p>
<p>He rounds on Atsumu again, but Atsumu's ready for him. He grapples Kiyoomi against the window, hands pinning his in place, each foot stepping hard on Kiyoomi’s. He’s out of limbs, but Kiyoomi’s still got more than enough room to stretch. He extends his neck to slam his forehead right into Atsumu’s nose.</p>
<p>Stunned, Atsumu stumbles back. He cups his hand to his face, and blood pours over his fingers.</p>
<p>“<em>Fuck you, Adapt-o-boy! </em>” he roars, words garbled by the bleeding. </p>
<p>Kiyoomi throws himself over him. Atsumu knees him in the stomach as he’s coming down and rolls away while Kiyoomi hits the floor like a goddamn brick. His teeth clack together. His chin throbs. His whole fucking jaw feels numb. He can hear Atsumu close by, scrabbling and stumbling to his feet, wheezing with every uneven breath. His boots squeak against the hardwood floors when he slips on their sweat or blood or both.</p>
<p>Five to eight minutes. That’s how long Tendou’s power is supposed to last. But Kiyoomi’s anger is still burning, burning, burning and Atsumu’s is just getting started. Kiyoomi extends both arms to grab Atsumu’s foot. Atsumu hops onto the couch and stuffs something up his nose. The bleeding stops all at once.</p>
<p>“Yer lucky it ain’t <em> broke</em>,” he snarls, bending at the knees.</p>
<p>He leaps. </p>
<p>Kiyoomi watches it happen in slow-motion like a goddamn wrestling replay. With all the strength he can muster, he throws himself to the side rolls as far and as fast across the room as he can. The destroyed coffee table slows him down. He ends up with wood chips and glass pieces in his hair, in his costume, and embedded in his skin, but he can’t feel any of it. All he can feel is the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he propels himself up off the ground and swings his leg in a wide, stretching roundhouse kick to effectively clothesline Atsumu with his shin.</p>
<p>Atsumu gasps and crumples on impact, hands clawing at his throat. </p>
<p>Worry. It rises up inside of Kiyoomi and takes over everything else he was feeling, until his eyes are stinging with it. He can’t get to Atsumu fast enough, curling over him and gasping, “Shit—<em>shit </em>. Are you—”</p>
<p>It takes him too long to notice Atsumu’s unhinged, delighted grin. He sends a left hook up into Kiyoomi’s cheekbone, knocking him back on his ass with a grunt.</p>
<p>“Don’t wuss out on me now,” Atsumu snarls, pushing to his feet. “Ya cost us our lead. Ya ruined <em> everything</em>.”</p>
<p>He cracks his knuckles. Kiyoomi gets up and glares right back at him.</p>
<p>“We could have avoided <em> all of this </em> if you’d just been honest with me, dipshit!” he hisses.</p>
<p>Everything hurts, and now he’s really starting to feel it. Worse: he can feel himself fixating on the blood smeared over Atsumu’s wide mouth, the sweat-mussed ruin of his hair, the stretch of his skintight costume across his broad chest. What’s left of Tendou’s power sinks its claws into that attention and twists.</p>
<p>“Honest?” Atsumu stalks forward, eyes dark, mouth twisted into a sneer. “Ya want somethin’ <em> honest</em>, Omi-Omi?”</p>
<p>He reaches for Kiyoomi, but Kiyoomi stretches out of the way and—with one arm extended just enough to put a hand right between Atsumu’s shoulder blades—slams him into the closest wall. They’re both breathing brutally as he presses his own body firmly against Atsumu’s back, stretching his torso enough to envelop him entirely. </p>
<p>“Shut up,” he snarls, nose tucked against the sweaty skin behind Atsumu’s ear. He pins Atsumu’s wrists to the wall and stretches one of his feet so he can stomp on both of Atsumu’s. Turnabout’s fair play or whatever. “Just shut the fuck up, before you <em> really </em> get us into trouble.”</p>
<p>Atsumu’s quiet and still. He heaves heavy, wet breaths. He smells like sweat and sunshine, like his tan absorbed every ray and saved them all for later. Kiyoomi wants to soak all of him up.</p>
<p>“Omi-kun,” Atsumu groans. His hips shift back against Kiyoomi’s, and both of them make low, aching sounds deep in their chests. “I think we’re already there.”</p>
<p>He’s not wrong. </p>
<p>The point of no return was passed without Kiyoomi even noticing, and now here they are: emotions flaring, Atsumu pinned between the wall and Kiyoomi and no longer fighting it. His hips cant back again. Kiyoomi hisses through his teeth and bites at the curve of his ear. Atsumu inhales sharply.</p>
<p>“Are we doin’ this?” he asks. He sounds like he has something jammed up his nose—probably whatever stopped the bloodflow earlier. </p>
<p>“I hate you,” Kiyoomi says.</p>
<p>“Why dontcha say that to my face?” </p>
<p>That’s the smartest thing he’s said all night. Kiyoomi draws back just enough to turn him around only to pin him all over again. Atsumu’s head lolls against the wall as he laughs. There’s blood smearing his mouth, his chin, his throat and sweat starting to dry everywhere else. His teeth are impossibly, incredibly white. </p>
<p>“You’re concussed,” Kiyoomi accuses. </p>
<p>“Minorly,” Atsumu agrees. “Make out a little with me or I’m gonna pass out.”</p>
<p>He’s filthy from head to toe and knees to elbows. In any other circumstances, he couldn’t have paid Kiyoomi to look at him, let alone touch him. Suggestions of mouth to mouth contact would have been grounds for an ass-kicking. Now that they’ve well and truly kicked each others’ asses—and have the bruising and swelling and bleeding to show for it—Kiyoomi’s thinking he must be a little concussed too, because he’s looking at that slack, pretty mouth and thinking—</p>
<p>“I <em> hate </em> you.”</p>
<p>Atsumu rolls his eyes, then he winces like it hurts him to do so. “<em>Liar</em>,” he accuses. </p>
<p>Kiyoomi fists a hand into Atsumu’s terrible, sweat-mussed hair and drags him into a furious kiss. Atsumu makes that sound again, like he’s dying, and wraps his freed arm around Kiyoomi’s shoulders, locking him in close together.</p>
<p>He tastes overwhelmingly of blood and sweat. It’s disgusting. Atsumu bites him, and it <em> hurts</em>. Nothing about any of this is pleasant. Kiyoomi needs it like air.</p>
<p>“I can hate someone and want to fuck them at the same time,” he counters, pressing the words right into Atsumu’s lips, and Atsumu makes a sound like he really might pass out.</p>
<p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” he says hotly, fingers catching in Kiyoomi’s curls. “Okay. Okay, gimme—gimme a second to process that. Fuck.” </p>
<p>“You said <em> six feet</em>,” Kiyoomi continues, biting now at the hook of Atsumu’s jaw. “He was at <em>least</em> ten feet away, Miya!” </p>
<p>“I’m sorry! Yeesh!” Atsumu complains, yanking Kiyoomi’s head back to glower at him. “There must have been something I missed. It happens.”</p>
<p>“It <em> happens</em>,” Kiyoomi echoes, glaring right back. “This only <em> happens </em> when you decide to fuck off on your own—”</p>
<p>“Oh, spare me the fuckin’ <em> lecture</em>—”</p>
<p>“—and think your <em> partner </em> doesn’t need to know <em> vital details </em> about your mission!” </p>
<p>For the rest of his life, Kiyoomi’s going to have nightmares about the bright, delighted smile that stretches across Atsumu’s face. He’s going to have to leave the agency, leave Osaka—hell, leave <em> Japan</em>. The whole eastern hemisphere is going to have to be off limits if he wants to have any hope of avoiding the monster Atsumu’s ego is sure to grow into. </p>
<p>“You called us <em> partners </em>,” he coos. </p>
<p>Kiyoomi’s a whorl of anger and arousal. He’s not sure which instinct he wants to feed just yet.</p>
<p>“I hate you,” he reiterates. “And if you pull this stunt again, I’m out. You can find your brother on your own.”</p>
<p>Atsumu grimaces. “Can we <em> not </em> mention Samu when I’m grinding my dick on your thigh?”</p>
<p>The question lands like a physical blow. Kiyoomi flinches back and looks down—sure enough, he’s slotted a thigh between Atsumu’s, and Atsumu’s humping against him eagerly. How had he <em> missed </em> that?</p>
<p>He’s sure as hell not missing it now.</p>
<p>Kiyoomi watches the roll of his hips as he settles his hands on Atsumu’s waist. The person who designed Marksman’s nightmode costume had had the brilliant idea of making it a bodysuit with a zipper right down the middle of the chest. This person was, in all likelihood, a villain sent to Osaka with the sole purpose of ruining Kiyoomi’s life.</p>
<p>He brushes his fingers along the seam of the zipper. Atsumu arches into his touch with a groan. When he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobs temptingly; without thinking, Kiyoomi curls in to press his mouth to it. His body’s thrumming of <em> want, want, want </em> has stripped him bare and reduced him to little more than instinct. </p>
<p>“Why’d ya—<em> shit</em>!” </p>
<p>Instinct leads Kiyoomi to squat a little, put his hands to the underside of Atsumu’s thick thighs, and haul him up the wall. Atsumu kicks and flails for a few seconds before curling his legs around Kiyoomi’s hips and his arms around his shoulders. He looks very, very angry, scowling through all the layers of grime plastered to his face. Kiyoomi kisses the corner of his mouth like an apology.</p>
<p>“What the fuck,” Atsumu breathes. “How’re you <em> this </em>strong?”</p>
<p>Because Atsumu’s no soft, demure waif—he’s over six feet of corded, deadly muscle with a foul mouth to match. But elasticity on its own—while useful—has its limitations. Kiyoomi had to be strong, too, if he wanted to rank with the best of the best.</p>
<p>“Shut up,” is all he says now, physically incapable of explaining himself. </p>
<p>Atsumu, to his credit, obeys. He tugs Kiyoomi by the curls into another hungry, open-mouthed kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and low, strained noises exchanged between them. Kiyoomi hates him and needs him with equal fervor. </p>
<p>He is also distantly grateful that Wakatoshi’s apartment is infinitely cleaner than the rest of the building, the mess they made of his living room notwithstanding.</p>
<p>“It doesn’t last forever,” Atsumu mumbles against Kiyoomi’s mouth while rocking his hips in a mindless, instinctual sort of way. “We just gotta wait ‘til the effect wears off—”</p>
<p>“This is a lot longer than <em> five to eight minutes</em>,” Kiyoomi points out.</p>
<p>Atsumu bites his bottom lip and tugs. “I get it!” he snarls. “My math was off. Will you <em> get over it </em> already?”</p>
<p>Kiyoomi’s never gotten over a thing in his life. Sometimes he remembers the kid who lived next door to him in primary school who insisted on calling him <em> Sasuke </em> and it still makes him simmer with quiet resentment. The chances of him getting over <em> this </em> are slim to none.</p>
<p>So he kisses Atsumu again instead of answering. It seems like the safer choice.</p>
<p>The problem being: Kiyoomi’s not sure his emotions will come down from this twisted high so easily. It’s not like he wasn’t feeling these things for Atsumu; he just had them under lock and key until Tendou came along and lockpicked Pandora’s box. Now here they are, making out against a wall in Wakatoshi’s living room, beside every volume of <em> Bleach </em> and <em> One Piece </em> and <em> Detective Conan </em> that have ever gone to print, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know where his body begins or ends because he’s so tightly pressed against Atsumu.</p>
<p>When he presses his forehead to Atsumu’s throat and tries to find the space to think clearly, Atsumu growls. “Move a little.” Then he moves his hips in a deliberate, baiting sort of way and says, “I need—”</p>
<p>That phrase connects—a critical hit. Kiyoomi tightens his grip on Atsumu’s thighs and snaps, “I <em> know </em> what you need.” </p>
<p>Then he rolls his own hips, slow and deliberate, and both of them moan against each other’s mouths, Atsumu’s tongue lolling out his mouth a little, his lashes fluttering at the feeling. </p>
<p>“<em>Yeah</em>,” he says on a shiver. “Again—do. Do that again.”</p>
<p>Kiyoomi feels like his body is on fire. He wants to burn straight through Atsumu, to know what he’s like in the deepest, softest places inside. Fuck. <em> Fuck</em>. He rolls his hips again. Atsumu makes a sound like a sob. </p>
<p>“I have to say, I’m surprised,” Kiyoomi purrs. He takes a hand off Atsumu’s thigh—Atsumu tightens his legs around him to stay put and grinds down hard and wanton as he does—to press his gloved fingers against his tongue. He hooks his thumb behind Atsumu’s bottom teeth. “Didn’t expect you to be so needy, Miya.”</p>
<p>“Fuck <em> you</em>,” Atsumu says, words garbled.</p>
<p>Kiyoomi considers this. Then he leans in to drag his teeth along Atsumu’s jaw, which has the exact right effect: Atsumu shudders violently. Kiyoomi nips again at his earlobe, purely for the sake of being a dick, and murmurs, “I was thinking about fucking <em> you</em>, actually.”</p>
<p>Atsumu gasps, the sound loud in the otherwise-silent condo, then he goes absolutely still. </p>
<p>Kiyoomi blinks at him and draws his hands away, trying to assess if he’s hurt or— </p>
<p>Oh. <em> Oh</em>.</p>
<p>Atsumu, who’s red all over now, closes his eyes, covers his face with a big hand, and mumbles, “Shut up. Don’t even—don’t even <em> think</em>. I’ll kill you if you laugh right now, I really fuckin’ will.” </p>
<p>Laughing is maybe the absolute last thing Kiyoomi wants to do. He nudges his nose at Atsumu’s hand until he can get at his mouth, then he kisses Atsumu’s pout away until he relents and kisses back with a sigh that sounds like surrender. </p>
<p>They stay against that wall, kissing and kissing, until Kiyoomi’s mouth feels swollen and a little numb and tastes entirely of copper and salt. It takes them well, well, <em> well </em> beyond five to eight minutes to separate, straighten their costumes, and look at the envelope Atsumu found before shit went to hell. It’s crumpled to hell now, with fat drops of blood clustered on one side, but it’s still intact. </p>
<p><em> SUMU </em> is written across it in a neat, familiar scrawl. </p>
<p>Atsumu is pale beneath his flushed cheeks as he thumbs at the letters. For a few minutes, he simply stares at it—saying nothing. He rubs some sweat off his brow, his eyebrow starts to bleed sluggishly again. He grimaces at his soiled, fingerless glove, and casts a nervous, uncertain look Kiyoomi’s way.</p>
<p>He says, “Let’s get outta here before the cops or Southpaw get tipped off. My pants are startin’ to chafe.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Sumu, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Take your big, fat, ugly nose outta my business and worry about your own stupid life for once. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Your healthy, happy, hungry brother who had to put down his lunch to write this, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Samu </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> PPTMSTR.exe </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> * </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Kiyoomi’s apartment feels too small anytime he invites anyone up, but it’s especially true when it’s Atsumu who’s slouched on his couch, stripped out of his bodysuit and wearing a set of sweats from Kiyoomi’s own wardrobe. </p>
<p>They haven’t talked about the letter from Osamu yet, or the tiny SD card that slipped out of the envelope along with it. Kiyoomi’s not sure how to broach the subject when Atsumu’s hair is still damp and all of him smells fresh and clean and familiar. </p>
<p>It’s Atsumu who breaks the silence between them. He says, “Y’know, when he got you back there, I expected t’get hit—but everything else...” </p>
<p>“I hate it when you’re smug,” Kiyoomi sighs, eyes slipping shut, head lolling against the back of the couch.</p>
<p>Atsumu gives a clipped laugh. For a while they’re just quiet together. Then he says, “I guess it goes without sayin’ that this is a bad idea. You’n me.”</p>
<p>Kiyoomi snorts. No, it sure as shit doesn’t need saying. Everything about Atsumu is—and has always been—a bad idea. That’s never stopped Kiyoomi from wanting him. If not for tonight, he could have kept pretending the only risk between them was their partnership getting discovered. Which—</p>
<p>How to drop that particular bomb, he wonders.</p>
<p>When the answer doesn’t come immediately, he sighs, “You should have warned me about his power.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Atsumu says, voice low and eyes locked on Kiyoomi’s coffee table, on the binder that says BLOODHOUND on the spine. “Sorry ‘bout that.”</p>
<p>“And—sorry. For assaulting you.”</p>
<p>That startles a bright, bubbling laugh out of Atsumu, who looks at Kiyoomi with open warmth for all of two seconds before whapping him with a throw pillow.</p>
<p>“Don’t apologize,” he complains. “It’s freakin’ <em> weird </em>. Besides, I like to think I held my own. And I coulda tased the shit outta ya at any point.”</p>
<p>“Whatever you have to tell yourself,” Kiyoomi huffs.</p>
<p>Atsumu laughs, the sound loud and warm and filling every corner of Kiyoomi’s pristine one-bedroom apartment. “Fuck you, Limber.” There’s not an ounce of sincerity in that tone. </p>
<p>His smile is a special sort of star. Kiyoomi wants to follow it home, to wherever that might be. </p>
<p><em> End it</em>, Foster said to him not four hours ago. At the time, Kiyoomi had known he’d been asked the impossible. He’s an A-Rank hero with an A-Rank hero’s reputation to protect, but he’s been laying that on the line for months now with every phone call, text message, and surreptitious meetup with known-vigilante Crackshot. That’s not just going to stop because a reporter might have caught a lead. </p>
<p>Shit. It’s now or never, if he doesn’t want to make a hypocrite of himself. </p>
<p>“The <em>Star</em> has a hunch about us,” he says, and Atsumu’s happy expression shutters like a candle snuffed out. “They don’t have a story to run yet, but we’re going to have to be careful.”</p>
<p>“I’m <em>always</em>—”</p>
<p>Kiyoomi extends an arm to clap a hand over his mouth. “<em>Don’t</em> finish that sentence,” he warns. “It’s a waste of breath. You’re the least careful person I’ve ever met.’</p>
<p>Atsumu licks his palm. Kiyoomi retracts it like he’s been burned. </p>
<p>“Y’know,” Atsumu huffs, sitting back on his side of the couch, crossing his arms, and kicking his feet up on the coffee table despite the glare that earns him. “I <em> really </em> hate it when you tell me what to do.” </p>
<p>Outside a siren wails. </p>
<p>“What the hell’s PPTMSTR?” Kiyoomi asks.</p>
<p>Atsumu sighs. “If I had to guess? An old friend,” he says. “You might know the guy: Rintarou Suna. Codename: Puppet Master.”</p>
<p>Kiyoom furrows his brow. “The villain,” he clarifies.</p>
<p>“Villain’s a strong word,” Atsumu says, leaning forward to pick up the letter again. “But, yeah. That’s what he’s known for these days.” He hesitates for a moment, casting a sidelong look Kiyoomi’s way. The siren grows louder, and others join it. “He’s also Samu’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend? It’s kinda weird between them. Last I heard, anyway.”</p>
<p>He groans as he gets to his feet. When he rolls his head around in a slow circle, his neck cracks a handful of times. “Shit, that’s the spot,” he moans. </p>
<p>Heat twists in Kiyoomi’s belly. He glances away, out the window, to where blue lights are flashing on the building opposite his own.</p>
<p>“I’m gonna head out,” Atsumu says. “If the <em>Star</em>really is onto us, lingerin’ ain’t too wise. Thanks for the clothes. I’ll be sure t’return ‘em next time.” </p>
<p>He hitches his bag of stuff—weapons and tech and a soiled costume—onto a broad shoulder and makes for the bedroom, where the fire escape is. Kiyoomi follows, too dazed to do anything else. </p>
<p>“You should have told me,” he finally manages to say once Atsumu’s got one leg out the window. “About Puppet Master.”</p>
<p>“Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” Atsumu agrees, “but didn’t.” He smiles, and Kiyoomi hates him and wants to kiss him and hates that he wants to kiss him. “See ya later, hero. Try not to miss me too bad while I’m gone.” </p>
<p>He slides the window open and ducks through it. Just like that, the vigilante known as Crackshot disappears into the night. </p>
<p>For a while after that, Kiyoomi lingers in his bedroom, physically exhausted and mentally wired. He has—he glances at the clock on his wall—thirteen and a half hours before the start of his next shift. He closes his window with a snap of his wrists and wanders back out into the living room. </p>
<p>He waffles back and forth for a while before picking up his phone and dialing an old friend from Tokyo.</p>
<p>Kuroo picks up on the fourth ring. “Sakusa?” he asks, voice thick and rough with sleep. Kiyoomi looks at his phone. It’s nearly three in the morning. Whoops. “You there? I swear, if you're dialing me this late with your bony ass—”</p>
<p>“I'm here,” he says, "and I'll make it quick: you were assigned to the Puppet Master case a few years back, right?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Dubious Consent Tag Explanation:</b> Kiyoomi and Atsumu are hit by a superpower that causes them to feel their emotions at superficially heightened levels. This escalates their annoyance with each other into an all-out fist fight and later grinding against each other with some heavy petting. Based on how the power works, it's implied that both of them <i>want</i> to have sex with each other it, they just don't have as much agency in the moment as they should. </p>
<p>Happy SakuAtsu week day two everyone!  Today's prompt was [Mask/Hide], and Neyan prompted me with a SuperHero AU, so this is what I wrote! I want to thank Basti and Grace, who helped beta this monster for me, and I want to thank all of you who have supported me prepping for and writing this story over the last several weeks.</p>
<p>This story ends on a cliffhanger! That was always sort of the intention, but I didn't realize when I started off just how much I would love this world I was crafting. I think there will definitely be a continuation of this in the future, but it probably won't be a for a few months. I hope you've all enjoyed reading this as much as I absolutely LOVED writing it.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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